The Boy Who Lived and The Girl Who Died
by Eva-Mur
Summary: Everyone knows that on that fateful halloween night Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort, that Hagrid brought him to Privet Drive. But what no one knows is that there was someone else there, that night, someone who shouldnt have been there at all.


This is a one-shot at the moment but I'm considering making chapters, depending on whether people like it or not. Don't worry, it might not seem very different but it will change as the story goes on.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly you'd have thought he'd popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen in Privet Drive. He was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. HE was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's man was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived on a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realise he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, 'I should have known.'

He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again—the nest lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only light left in the street were the two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out the window now, even beady-eyed Mrs Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it but after a moment he spoke to it.

'Fancy seeing you here professor McGonagall.'

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather sever-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had round its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

'How did you know it was me?' she asked.

'My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly.'

'You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day,' said Professor McGonagall.

'All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.'

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

'Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right,' she said impatiently. 'You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news.' She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. 'I heard it. Flocks of owls ... shooting stars ... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent—I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.'

'You can't blame them,' said Dumbledore gently. 'We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.'

'I know that,' said Professor McGonagall irritably. 'But that's no reason to lose out heads. People are being downright careless, out on the street in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumours.'

She threw a sharp glance at Dumbledore, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't so she went on: 'A fine thing it would be, if on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he _has_ gone, Dumbledore?'

'It certainly seems so,' said Dumbledore. 'We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?'

'A _what_?'

'A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of.'

'No thank you,' said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for sherbet lemons. 'As I say, even if You-Know-Who _has _gone—'

'My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him, by his name? All this "You-Know-Who" nonsense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: _Voldemort_.' Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was u sticking two sherbet lemons, seemed not to notice. 'It all gets so confusing if we keep saying "You-Know-Who". I have never seen any reason to be frightened of Voldemort's name.'

'I know you haven't,' said Professor McGonagall, sound half-exasperated, half admiring. 'But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know—oh, all right, _Voldemort_—was frightened of.'

'You flatter me,' said Dumbledore calmly. 'Voldemort had powers I will never have.'

'Only because you're too—well—_noble_ to use them.'

'It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me se liked my new earmuffs.'

Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, 'The owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?'

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she had been most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all day, for neither as cat nor as woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did no. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer.

'What they're _saying_,' she pressed on, 'is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are—are—that they're—_dead_.'

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

'Lily and James ... I can't believe it ... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus ...'

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. 'I know ... I know ..' he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. 'That's not all. They're saying that he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But—he couldn't. he couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke—and that's why he's gone.'

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

'It's—it's true?' faltered Professor McGonagall. 'After all he's done ... all the people he's killed ... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's astounding ... of all the things to stop him ... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?'

'We can only guess,' said Dumbledore. 'We may never know.'

'He's special,' said a third voice, behind them. Professor McGonagall jumped, while Dumbledore merely turning his gaze on the newcomer. A woman stepped out of the shadows, dressed in long black robes with a halo of silvery hair framing her face. Her large black eyes took in the two Professors.

'Miss Hallow,' Dumbledore said, his tone, while civil, holding a steely edge. The woman appeared not to notice.

'Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall.' She sat down next to them on the wall. Still grieving Professor McGonagall pulled a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pockets and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving round the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore though, and the woman behind him judging by her lack of confusion as she read it over his shoulder, because he put it back in his pocket and said, 'Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?'

'Yes,' said Professor McGonagall, at the same time as the other woman said 'No.'

'And how did you find out then?' Asked Dumbledore, a slight frown appearing on his at the thought of someone else knowing he was here.

'Sirius Black told me that he'd seen Hagrid who'd said he was taking Harry to you. It was easy to work out where you were.' Dumbledore nodded but McGonagall just looked confused.

'And I don't suppose you're going to tell me _why_ you're here, of all places?'

'Isn't it obvious?' The other woman asked, a slight smirk at knowing more than the Professor, playing on her thin lips.

'No it isn't,' Professor McGonagall snapped crossly, her patience for the other woman obviously wearing thin.

'Alice, please.' Dumbledore said, in a weary voice, 'Let's not bicker, not tonight. To answer your question Professor McGonagall, I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now.'

'You don't mean—you _can't_ mean the people who live _here_?' cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. 'Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!'

'I agree with Professor McGonagall. He can't live with Muggles.'

'This isn't the time for bigotry Alice.' Dumbledore said mildly. 'It's the best place for him,' Dumbledore added firmly. 'His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter.'

'A letter?' repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. 'Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all his in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous—a legend—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future—there will be books written about Harry—every child in our world will know his name!'

'Exactly,' said Dumbledore, looking seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. 'It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all of that until he's ready to take it?'

'Oh he'll remember all right,' snapped Alice, 'leaving him with Muggles! I hope you realise the implications.'

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed and then said, 'Yes-yes, Dumbledore, you're right of course. But how is the boy getting here?' She eyed his cloak as if she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

'Hagrid is bringing him.'

'You think it—wise—to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?'

'I trust Hagrid with my life,' said Dumbledore.

'It's a miracle you've managed so long then,' muttered Alice, getting up from the wall and stretching her arms.

'I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place,' said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, 'but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what was that?'

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky—a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorbike was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply, too big to be allowed, and so _wild_—long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of dustbin lids and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

'Great idea. If they're not awake already, how about we try dragons?' Alice said snarkily; her eyes darting to the upstairs window of number four.

All three ignored Alice's snide comment.

'Hagrid,' said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. 'At last. And where did you get that motorbike?'

'Borrowed it Professor Dumbledore, sir,' said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike as he spoke. 'Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir.'

'No problems, were there?'

'No sir—house was almost destroyed but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol.' Hagrid seemed to spot Alice for the first time and frowned, or at least his bushy hair seemed to move slightly, but otherwise he didn't react.

Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall and Alice bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. Alice gently ran her fingers over it, carefully not to wake him. Her black eyes gazed at the baby with barely hidden curiosity.

'Is that where—?' whispered Professor McGonagall.

'Yes,' said Dumbledore. 'He'll have that scar forever.'

'Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?'

'Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee, which is a perfect map of the London underground.'

'A useless trophy,' Alice snorted, back to her usual sarcastic self.

'Quite. Well—give him here, Hagrid—we'd better get this over with.''

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned towards the Dursley's house.

'Could I—could I say goodbye to him, sir?' asked Hagrid.

He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

'Shhh!' Professor McGonagall hissed at the same time as Alice. 'You'll wake the Muggles!'

S-s-sorry,' sobbed Hagrid, taking a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face into it. 'But I c-c-can't stand it—Lily and James dead—an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles—'

'Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself Hagrid or we'll be found,' Professor McGonagall whispered patting Hagrid on the arm.

'That is if the Muggles haven't been woken already,' said Alice, nodding her head towards the hulking motorbike. Professor McGonagall gave her a piercing glare. Dumbledore stepped forward over the low garden wall and walked to the front four. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep and then came back to the other three. For a full minute the four of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulder shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, Alice's black eyes dimmed and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

'Well,' said Dumbledore finally, 'that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.'

'Yeah,' said Hagrid in a very muffled voice. 'I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Alice—Professor Dumbledore, sir.'

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself on to the motorbike and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

'I shall see you soon, I expect, professor McGonagall,' said Dumbledore. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. 'Have you considered my request Alice?'

'I accept,' Alice said calmly.

'Then I shall see you very soon as well.'

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four and Alice's small form sat beside it.

'Good luck, Harry,' he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. On small hand closed over the letter beside him at the stir of the presence beside him fading away and he slept on, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley, feeling nothing as his silent protector watched on ... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying hushed voices: 'To Harry Potter—the boy who lived!'

No one remembered the Girl Who Died.

Please review :)


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